John made it to the hospital in record time. He almost threw his money at the cabbie and then dashed into the building. What was Mycroft talking about help with his brother? Sherlock is dead; Mycroft should know that, as he loved to claim, he is smarter than Sherlock. It's understandable that it was his brother, little brother in fact and that he did care about him more than probably anything else in the world but there was nothing he could do to bring him back. Wasn't John doing the same thing? Wasn't he living in extreme denial about his death? Wasn't he imagining his flat mate every day and night, doing everything that he would usually complain about in the morning? John's thoughts were interrupted by a woman dressed in a nurse's uniform walked up to him.
"John Watson?"
"Uh…yes, I was called here by a Mycroft Holmes?"
She smiled. Her painted red lips reaching both ends of her face.
"Right this way."
As they walked to the destination, John decided to get some information out of her.
"So, has he told you anything?"
She only laughed again and shook her head.
"Whatever I told you over the phone was all I've been told and all I know."
That sounded like Mycroft, vague and mysterious. John was beginning to think that it ran in the genes.
"Here we are."
They stopped in front of the room with the numbers one hundred twenty-one on it. She opened the door but didn't go inside. She stared at the man expectedly.
"Are you going in?"
John blinked.
"Yes, yes, sorry."
She watched him stand in the doorway and walked away to perform her duties. There was Mycroft, standing there, resting some of his weight on his cherished umbrella. John has never seen him without it. Mycroft's eyebrow rose at the sight of John.
"I see you decided to come."
"Well when you get a call from the hospital stating that Mycroft Holmes needs assistance with his brother, what else are you gonna do?"
Mycroft gave one of his little smirks and then glanced at the floor. John prepared himself for whatever it is he would say in reply.
"John I—"
"No, I'm not done.
Mycroft smirked.
"If I look behind you right now and see Sherlock's dead body or a weird Frankenstein creation on that bed, I'm walking out and I'm…I'm gunna…"
"John, Sherlock didn't die."
John staggered back, as if being dealt a troubling hit.
"What did you say?" He spoke in a hushed tone of anger.
"I said my brother's demise hasn't happened yet."
He walked over to the bed and threw back the curtain that was surrounding the cot. There occupying the bed was Sherlock, who looked to be sleeping. His hair was a mess; it was unruly and looked to be going every which way. The only thing that kept it from swallowing the pillow was a big white bandage wrapped around his head stained with red on the side of it. John also saw that his left arm was in a sling. Thank god he's right-handed. John looked back at Mycroft.
"What happened?" That anger was being mixed with a whole palette of emotions.
Mycroft waltzed over to Sherlock and looked at him while talking to John.
"He survived."
John clenched his jaw. Now wasn't the time for the smart-ass side of Mycroft to come out.
"Mycroft…"
The older man rolled his eyes.
"Are you aware of the Lazarus Project, John?"
"Sorry, the what?"
"The Lazarus Project. It's what Sherlock and I came up with."
"There's something I do not understand here."
"I'm not surprised…"
One angry glare from John got Mycroft talking again.
"We both knew that Jim Moriarty was going to kill my brother. It was Sherlock who informed me that he was going to kill you lot if Sherlock chose to live and not go through with his death. So Lazarus was born. Sherlock was going to jump off of St. Barts and instead of dying; he would fall right onto a giant inflatable platform. He would then undergo quick cosmetics to look as if he had cracked his head open on the sidewalk and would position himself on the floor to look the part. Then my workers would come and act as if they were whisking Sherlock away to the morgue and you would all be safe. However, that didn't go according to plan, as you can see."
John really didn't want to ask but he needed to.
"…What happened?"
Mycroft inhaled.
"He certainly did crack his head open. You see, he still had to jump off the roof in order for this plan to work. One of my workers got complacent and they left a rubbish bin too close to the platform and Sherlock hit his head on the way down. We thought the plan was done for but then that would result in all of you dying and I know Sherlock wouldn't be able to handle the deaths of the people he holds dear so I had to…continue with the plan…"
John's anger was back again.
"So you threw your brother on the sidewalk, knowing that he was seriously hurt?"
"I'm not proud of what I did but I had to do it."
"So let me guess, I saw his injured body bleeding out on the sidewalk and then your workers whisked him away to the hospital so he could get the medical care he needed."
"Quite right."
John's fists were throbbing to punch this man in the face, British government or not.
"What if it had been too late for him, hm? What if Sherlock died?"
Mycroft looked into John's eyes with a hidden sadness.
"Then that would be my burden to carry."
John scoffed, not caring about Mycroft's guilt at the moment and pushed past him to sit on the bed. Staring at Sherlock's sleeping form made John feel things, some things he wanted to, or things he didn't. Without looking at Mycroft he asked, "How badly was he hurt?"
"His wounds will heal, though there is a slight defect…"
"How slight?"
"Wake him up and find out."
John rolled his eyes at Mycroft's cryptic talk. He gently shook the younger man and watched as his eyes fluttered open to reveal those grey-blue eyes he thought he would never see again. John unknowingly beamed at his sight. Miracles do come true.
"Oh thank god you're alive, Sherlock."
Sherlock's brows furrowed. He looked John up and down and opened his mouth. What he says crushes John in so many ways.
"Who…Who are you?"
A/N: Thank you for all of the people reading! It would really help a lot if you could try and pass this story around. I would greatly appreciate it!